


we got scars on our future hearts

by harukatenoh



Category: Dead Cells (Video Game)
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Developing Friendships, Gen, No editing we die like mne, Weird But Ultimately Sweet Bonding Moments Between Enemies, tfw u beat somebody up and impress them so greatly that u become friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-11-03 16:55:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17881619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harukatenoh/pseuds/harukatenoh
Summary: The Beheaded has gotten pretty tired of this; the same old same old every day, slash and hack and dodge and repeat. So it's not entirely unwelcome when, after getting her ass handed to her again, the Time Keeper extends an olive branch.





	we got scars on our future hearts

**Author's Note:**

> i love the time keeper i am a time keeper stan there is nobody i respect more than the time keeper
> 
> work title from old scars / future hearts by all time low

You walk over to her, the mighty Time Keeper,  your arms crossed. She’s on her last legs, her _last_ last legs; if there was a health bar hanging over her head, it would be down to the last point. You nock your bow.

“Wait,” she groans, putting out a hand in your direction. “Not yet.”

She says that every time, as if it has changed anything. The first time this happened—and isn’t it _infuriating_ , the amount of times you’ve gone through this—you thought she was actually going to do something, pull out some energy from fuck knows where for one last stand.

Except this time, she doesn’t heft up her considerably large sword. Instead, with another groan, she collapses onto her back. You’re not shocked, but you’re taken aback, which is why you stay your hand. Really. You aren’t shocked. Nothing shocks you anymore.

“I’m _sick_ of this,” she whines, like a child throwing a tantrum.

You put away your bow and cross your arms in judgement. She’s in no position to fight now, not really, and you’re pretty tired of doing this too. However, you were under the impression that she was the _reason_ you all had to keep doing this, again and again, with her weird time magic, so she really has no room to complain.

She pulls her helmet off. From what you can tell, she’s quite young. At least she _looks_ young. She’s also some sort of fucked up time wizard, so you shouldn’t trust that.

She turns her head to you, still on the ground, and gives you a measuring look.

“You’re very good at this,” she huffs. “You get better every time you come around.”

She sounds begrudgingly respectful. Like she’s impressed, or something. By you coming around and kicking her ass into next week— _hah_ —every time you do this song and dance.

Every other enemy you’ve encountered in this place has been nothing but hostile or repulsed or detesting or any combination thereof, so it’s a little weird to hear your five time—six time? Shit, you can’t keep track anymore—opponent sound so… amicable.

You shrug, because you don’t have any other response. Couldn’t really give one anyway, if you wanted to.

She heaves another sigh. “Can’t talk, huh? I guess that makes sense. There’s no good conversation to be had around here anymore.”

You shrug again.

There’s no harm in entertaining her in this strange monologue, you suppose, so you sit yourself down on the ground and settle in. Maybe it’d be nice to take a break without the Collector and all the other people down in the tunnels breathing down your neck.

With a drawn out _uuuuugh_ , she drags herself up into a sitting position, using her sword to prop herself up.

She eyes you again, but for some reason, she’s grinning.

“So, I heard you wiped the floor with the Hand of the King,”

As smug as you can get, you put a thumb up. You _did_. The fight may have been more gruelling and drawn out than the way she describes it, but you still won in the end. Sure, you’re proud.

She laughs, and it’s a tired sound, but it’s genuine nonetheless. You think you like it. You can’t remember the last time you heard anybody laugh.

“Good,” she grins again. “I never liked that guy. He was always parading around and glaring at you, acting like he was better than the _King_ , even.”

You nod, then you throw in a shrug as well. You guess you agree with her from the context clues you can gather, but overall you still have _no_ idea what the King’s deal was. You honestly don’t want to think about the whole situation at all.

She pulls a face. “Not that I like the King that much, either.

You find yourself wishing you had a head, because there’s no way to clearly communicate _gasp, the blasphemy_ through body language. You settle for putting your hands over your—where your mouth _would_ be, if you had a head, instead of having a crystal surrounded by glowing energy.

She grins again. She’s pretty intuitive, it seems, which makes sense. High ranking official with a fancy sounding job and a fancier looking tower. She must have some talent. “Trust me when I say the King is overrated. If he didn’t have the Hand there to be his guard dog, anybody could take over and do a better job. Especially me,”

 _Gasp, the blasphemy._ You think you’re warming up to her.

“Oh well,” she says, deciding that staying upright is too much effort and flopping back onto the ground. “My job here is too important, anyway. And nobody else can do it, so it’s all up to me!”

She sounds viciously proud.

You shrug. You don’t know what her job is, apart from beating up headless bodies that enter her tower room. Somehow, she seems to gather all of this from that one shrug.

She looks hurt, glaring at you petulantly from the floor, which dramatically reduces the effect of said glare. “You don’t even know what I do, do you?”

You shake your head as best as you can, and "the best you can" ends up being the energy around your head flickering and twisting a little more violently. She seems to get the message though, because she pouts more.

“I’m the most important person on this island! I keep the time.”

Yeah, _duh_ , you could gather that much. You give her a sarcastic thumbs up, because that tells you nothing.

She scrunches up her face, like she’s thinking hard.

Sounding a little more serious, she says “The island is… unpredictable. You know? It’s all… ” She finishes the words with a wiggle of her hand, and she’s lucky that you know exactly what she’s talking about, because to an outsider that explanation would’ve been complete nonsense. You put your thumb up.

She nods. “If there wasn’t anybody to keep the time, make sure it’s organized and in order… the island would mess it up. It would be chaos.”

You’ve heard the rumours, about the land that you all live on. The way it pulses, and grows, and shifts. They’re _rumours_ , but nothing on this shitty island can really be written off as rumour. Not after all that’s happened.

So you think about these rumours, and you think about the land pulsing and growing and shifting, and you can see the plausibility of time being the same.

“I’m the reason the sun rises and sets every day. You’re welcome, by the way.”

Okay, so maybe that _is_ an important job. You’re still not going to give her the satisfaction. You shrug.

She scoffs and rolls her eyes. “If that isn’t enough for you, my _latest_ job is keeping the Malaise at bay as well.”

Because you’re a rude, awful little being, you think _you’re not doing a very good job of it_. To communicate this to her, you cross your arms.

“Shut up,” she snaps, immediately understanding of your gesture. “I’m trying my best. It’s not—it’s not _easy_. I’ve been repeating the same damn day, trying to stop it from spreading further in time, for ages while those idiots in the castle sit around and poke at plants or whatever.”

She’s referring to the mystery person with the labs all over the place, you realize. You think that their experiments—while you’re not exactly comfortable calling them that, you aren't an ethics expert but there's  _something_ wrong there—amount to a little more than poking at plants, but you understand. Next to keeping time orderly and also battling the onsurge of the plague, everything else seems to pale.

Shit, now she’s got you feeling _bad_ for her. Devious, devious, devious. You cross your arms, as if to guard yourself against this strange and horrifying sentiment.

She looks over at you, and grins again. “Yeah, yeah, I’m pretty impressive, aren’t I? You _should_ feel bad for fighting me this much.”

Is she a mind reader? How does she just _know?_

 _Witch!_ , you exclaim in your head. It’s not a very serious exclamation, and you realize with resigned dread that you’re _teasing_. You’re _joking_. You’re _bantering_ with the enemy. This is far past fraternizing.

Sure, she can’t hear any of it, but still. You can hear it, and you’re the most relevant person as far as you’re concerned.

She’s smiling again, but it’s not the cocky grin of before. This smile is _exhausted_. She did just get the shit beat out of her by a blob possessing a body—a very handsome one, you must say, but blob regardless—but this fatigue stretches further than that. She has a hard job. You don't think you would be able to do it.

Looking over at you, a bit of her hair falling in her face, she asks “So anyway, what’s your deal?”

You shrug. You have no fucking idea.

She watches you for a moment after, evidently waiting for a follow-up response, but you have none. You _really_ have no fucking idea.

“Huh,” she says, afterwards. “You’re just here, going on your merry quest, and you don’t know why?”

Absolutely not! You put a thumb up.

She snorts. “You’re so fucking weird,” she says. “This is so fucking weird.”

Obviously. You established this already at the very start of the conversation. She’s slow on the uptake, which isn’t a good look on a Time Keeper.

Silence falls for a while after that. It's... comfortable, you suppose. She’s regaining her energy, and you wonder if she’s going to challenge you again. You’re not particularly inclined to fight her anymore, and you’d like to hope she feels the same.

When she finally gets up again, heaving a sigh and using her sword to push herself up again, you’re expecting the worst. What you get, instead, is a head cocked your way and another tired, tired, tired smile.

“Go on,” she says. “Get out of here. I don’t really get why you’re even doing this, but I won’t stop you anymore.”

Strangely, you get the feeling she knows _exactly_ why you’re doing this. 

The King is dead. She has no orders to follow anymore. There’s no reason for her to be doing this, but she keeps on doing it. The same weird compulsion keeps you both going.

You give her a thumbs up. She gives you one back.

“Good luck,” she says. “I hope that whatever you’re trying to do, you do it. Change something, for once. I’m tired of this.”

You put _both_ of your thumbs up at her, in a show of true camaraderie. She laughs, waving you off.

You hope that you don’t have to see her again, because that would mean this whole thing had started over, but.

If it doesn’t end in a fight, which you really hope it doesn’t, then.

You guess she’s not too bad company.

Nobody is exactly jumping at the chance to talk to you anymore, so you wouldn’t mind another chat.

You walk through the door. Time moves on.

**Author's Note:**

> if you liked this fic, please consider donating to my ko-fi! it's linked in [my carrd](http://arashiyama.carrd.co) \- thank you so much if you do!


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